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Never Again (The Good One)
I was seventeen when she came. I’d been living with my abusive mother for seventeen long, painful years. It was around midnight, and my mother was already asleep, so when the three soft raps at the front door came it was me who answered. An odd looking little girl stood there, with cheeks pale and colorless, blonde hair in braided pigtails, pink dress torn a little at the hem, feet bare and turning slightly blue from the cold of winter, and black eyes. Fathomless, deep black eyes. I quickly let her in, thinking of how horridly underdressed she was. It wasn’t until later I’d wonder why she’d not been shivering, or even question as to why she was here in the first place. I got her into the living room, wrapping her little form in a thick afghan my grandmother knitted. She held it, though it didn’t seem to affect her, and I smiled. “What’s your name, sweetie?” A long silence passed, in which she stared at me. I was beginning to be discomforted by her black gaze when she parted her lips and spoke in a soft voice. “Lacy Morgan.” I nodded, smiling again. “You can stay here tonight, Lacy,” I said, motioning to the couch. She curled up in a little ball, black eyes still on me, and I exited the room. That night I slept soundly, not worrying about my mother beating me or the strange little girl on my couch. When morning came and I trudged into the kitchen, I was greeted with a coffee mug to the shoulder. I gave a feeble shout of pain, staring at my mother. “What the hell did you do? Why is there dirt on the couch?!” she shouted, confusing me greatly. Upon investigating, I found that Lacy had vanished, the only proof she’d been there being some dirt that must have fallen off her dress or feet. I took responsibility, earning myself a strong hit to my cheek, then left for school. While there I heard something that sent chills through my spine. “Lacy Morgan was found dead last night.” I passed the day waiting for any more news on the subject, but found none. Upon arriving home, the news was broadcasting a live report on her though. “Lacy Morgan, six years of age, was reported dead at seven last night. Her body was located in the backyard, buried there in her pink dress. So far there has been no sign of her mother, Marrisa Morgan, who is suspected to be the killer. Marrisa has reportedly abused Lacy multiple times, and may be responsible for her death.” Suddenly, a picture of Lacy appeared on the screen. She appeared very close to how she had when I met her, blonde hair in braids, pink dress, pale face. Only, her cheeks had color… and her eyes were baby blue. To most this would seem unimportant, but to me it was. She’d died before arriving at my house, if what the newscaster said was true. Died hours before. I tried to play it off, going about my business. I went to bed early so as not to have to see my mother. It was around midnight when I awoke to cool fingers stroking the bruise on my cheek. I sighed, leaning into the small hand. “Never again,” Lacy whispered, before her hand vanished. Not ten minutes later I heard my mother screaming. I rushed into her bedroom, nearly fainting at what I saw. My mom was thrashing wildly on her bed, a small creature having buried its face into her chest. I could hear the sound of flesh tearing, and my mother’s screaming increased in volume. I wished I hadn’t gotten up. Later on, I’d tell myself I hadn’t. But I had. So, when Lacy pull back from the gaping hole in my mother’s chest cavity, I had a plain view of her razor sharp teeth, glinting in the light. Glinting with my mother’s blood. She smiled innocently at me for a moment, before swiftly tearing out my mother’s jugular. That time I did faint. When I came to, I was in my bed. I walked to my mom’s room, morbid curiosity getting the best of me. Upon opening the door, I found the room empty. The bed made neatly, as if my mom had left for work early. The only oddities were the dirty child’s footprints, and the open window, showing that Lacy had in fact visited. I never saw my mother again, and I never missed her either. I eventually got married, and we had a child together. I named her Lacy. Recently, I noticed the neighbors' daughter has all sorts of scrapes and bruises on her arms. I’ve started watching their home. And the other day I saw something odd: a little girl running barefoot through their back yard up to their backdoor. It was around midnight, so I couldn’t be for sure, but I thought she met my eyes with her black ones. And I could swear she mouthed two words at me. Never again. Category:Monsters